


Untitled

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-17
Updated: 2005-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:25:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a thesis to be written, a monograph, an epistle, a newspaper article, an essay, <em>something</em> about the fact that this is their relationship, the essence of their being, distilled into end-of-day ritual performed a hundred times a year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

There's a thesis to be written, a monograph, an epistle, a newspaper article, an essay, _something_ about the fact that this is their relationship, the essence of their being, distilled into end-of-day ritual performed a hundred times a year.

Sirius thinks as much, at least.

He shifts his hips; denim rasps against ancient fabric as he sprawls, head against the sofa back, spine contorted, mess of limbs. He thumbs his paperback; trashy stuff about cowboys and tumbleweed and the man on the cover wears a too-big hat and stands in shadow, backlit by the sun. He's everything Sirius thinks he'd like to be between the hours of one and four on Tuesday afternoons, but no longer than that – he'd do himself an injury with the spurs, and cowboys don't get to sprawl on sofas, and he's rather partial to the way Remus mumbles himself to sleep.

But sprawling's only half the thesis.

While Sirius sprawls, Remus curls – pulls his feet up, leans against the sofa arm and balances books against his knees. He's tidy (although he's frayed at the edges), and he's considerate (except when his sneezes surprise him). He gnaws on his thumbnails and reads whatever he can lay his hands on – Lenin and Dickens and Churchill and Blyton and Wollstonecraft (and Sirius will never forget the Jackie Collins phase). Everything belies the mischief within and that's okay, since Sirius likes to pretend there aren't quiet spaces between his own 16th and 17th vertebrae or nestling close to his ankle on the left side of his leg.

Sprawling and curling – the words feel like their names in some other language, and Sirius forgets that he was interested in the fortunes of the two lost heifers a paragraph before and loses himself in the text of Remus' toes, the self-same ones that are inching across the divide of cushions and burrowing themselves beneath his thigh.

"S'cold," says Remus, attention on his book.

"So get some socks," says Sirius with mock distraction, since he's supposed to be fascinated by saddles and ropes.

Remus wiggles his toes. "You're better."

"Better than socks?"

"Hmmm."

Sirius smiles at that, and realizes he's completely gone because he's flattered to be better than socks and really, that's hardly the most stellar compliment he's received in his life, but it came from _Remus_ and that's enough to make anyone's earlobes tingle. He pats the top of Remus' foot, circles his fingers around an ankle and that's the point of no return – the reason they end up sprawled along the length of the couch, curled around each other, the better parts of both their beginnings, even if the books are lost.

"I could get you socks," Sirius mumbles into Remus' hair.

"Don'twant'em," says Remus in the last possible second before he's nuzzling Sirius' throat.

"Toeses'll get cold," whispers Sirius, shivering at the sweet-soft touch of Remus' tongue.

"Fuck 'em," says Remus, and grins against Sirius' skin, which is _such_ a bastard turn on that Sirius briefly flirts with being fifteen again and coming in his jeans (although then it was because someone mentioned kiwi fruit).

And so it goes, every night they're able, smudging stories of cowboys and socialites beneath the edges of each other's clothes, dropping kisses laced with political theory to stubbled jaws and nibbling at collarbones with lips that remember open prairies. There are whole sentences to write with clever tongues, and grammar to etch to the inside of wrists while fingertips flutter out periods, semi-colons, asterisks and question marks. They cover each other in fabled kisses and coax out subtext from the shadow of their elbows, and later, much later, there's a space for Sirius to yell _yee-ha_ and to make Remus laugh as they stumble to bed.


End file.
